


Boom!

by Sheffield



Series: A charmed life [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 10:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11942334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheffield/pseuds/Sheffield
Summary: Sherlock and John solve the case of the Blind Banker.  And the Mystery of the Missing Broom.





	Boom!

A crying child is heart-rending.  
A crying child after forty two minutes of solid crying that sounds like "boo… hoo… hoo… hoo…hoom!" is, well, slightly less heartbreaking and verging on the annoying.  
John had tried Fluffy Bunny, Mr Ted, Kanga the Roo, and even the thing with all the plastic bits that you hit with a hammer. As well, of course, as a nappy change, a bottle, a mashed banana and that thing in the green pouch that smells like mangoes and broccoli.  
Sherlock had tried the lego robot that must never, ever be left anywhere near an unsupervised child because the small pieces could choke him, explaining the periodic table, and even playing a set of jazz violin versions of Three Blind Mice. As well, of course, as demonstrating how to dissect a severed thumb and explaining a couple of rather interesting cold cases he had been saving for a rainy day.  
Harry Potter, however, remained impervious to the charms of his uncles and simply sobbed piteously, interspersed with the word "Boom!"  
"Harry, kindly explain yourself more clearly," Sherlock demanded. "Do you fear being exploded? Because I can assure you there are absolutely no dangerous chemicals of any kind in this flat and any chemicals in the lab downstairs are subject to the most rigorous and tedious safety precautions your uncle Mycroft could devise." Something about Sherlock's voice, or perhaps his face, or perhaps simply the fierce attention he paid to trying to decipher Harry's problem seemed to penetrate Harry's crying and turn it to minor sniffling. Sherlock took this to mean he was close, and carried on. "Or do you require me TO explode something, because I would be perfectly happy to entertain you with pyrotechnics if – ow!- I could be sure you would –ow!- stop crying and –ow!- that your Uncle John would stop striking me round the head with a rolled up newspaper…"  
John rolled his eyes, dropped the newspaper, and took Harry back from Sherlock's arms.  
"What is it, love," he said gently. Harry wasn't quite verbal yet, just as he was almost but not quite able to walk. But all the answer he received was another long sob that sounded like "boo… hoo… hoo… hoo…hoom!"  
Sherlock had his phone to his ear.  
"Mycroft, where are Harry's possessions? His clothes, pictures of his parents, cuddly toys? In particular, did he own something that a pre-verbal child could mispronounce as "boom"? I have no idea. Groom? Toy horse? Vroom? Toy car? Bloom? Something in the shape of a flower? Broom? I have no idea." There was a pause, and then Sherlock screwed up his face into one of those polite masks he used for charming reluctant witnesses. "If you wouldn't mind. Mrs Hudson has made coffee and walnut cake, should you care to deliver the items in person."

***

John's financial position had improved rather unexpectedly when he became his nephew's guardian. For one thing there seemed to be a stipend attached to the position which went into his account every month from an organisation calling itself ML (which he had once seen written in full as "muggle liaison" and about which he resolutely refused to enquire). Also there was a nanny slash housekeeper called Renton who seemed to appear out of thin air from one of Mycroft's cars the first time John and Sherlock had to go out on a case when Mrs Hudson was out. John had been rather reluctant to leave Harry with someone he didn't know, even with Mycroft's personal guarantee that the someone was perfectly qualified for the position, but he was reassured when they returned to find Harry happily playing in his playpen with a newly-built duplo model of the batcave, a fresh batch of madeleines cooling on the kitchen table and the kitchen floor a remarkably different colour that turned out to be what you got when you cleaned it with a toothbrush.  
Nevertheless, his personal finances were a mess. Turns out that a small service pension is insufficient for living, even in a flatshare, in Central London if you still want to go on paying bills, wearing clothes, catching buses and even eating once in a while. He needed a job.  
"I need a job," he said to Sherlock.  
"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock replied, wrapping Harry around him with a length of purple cashmere that had appeared on the coat rack one day. Sherlock had apparently acquired it with the twin aims of being able to carry Harry around without compromising his own mobility and making John feel like an idiot when he couldn't even begin to work out how to wrap and unwrap it.  
So they went to the bank, the three of them; an enormous glass and steel structure in the middle of the City, where they passed through three levels of security to an office on the eleventh floor where, apparently, something called "Shad Sanderson: Investment Bank" had its headquarters.  
"Not quite the kind of bank I had in mind," John said.  
"We have an appointment with Sebastian Wilkes," Sherlock said to the receptionist.  
"We do?" John muttered.  
Sebastian Wilkes turned out to be one of those people you instantly dislike. He had probably started out as a floppy haired Etonian but now he was a slightly pudgy man with an overpriced suit, a cut glass voice and a sneer in every sentence.  
"Sherlock Holmes!   
"Sebastian."   
"How are you, buddy? How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"  
"This is my friend John Watson."   
"‘Friend’?"   
"Partner," John said, standing a little taller with his spine a little straighter, "and our son, Harry."   
"Partner, eh? I'm surprised he even got as far as friend. I don't remember you having 'friends' at uni., Shirley. We hated him, you know. You'd come down to breakfast and he'd tell the world the details of who you were shagging."  
"Really? And there I was thinking they didn't send stupid people to university."

Wilkes showed them into an office where there sinister yellow graffiti had been painted on the walls and gave them a tale of the room and the offices in general being constantly surveilled by cameras that didn't pick up the miscreants. Sherlock silently unwound Harry from the purple cashmere wrap and handed him to John, and then proceeded to… John wasn't quite sure. Imitate a meerkat? He hopped around the open plan offices, peering through office windows, popping up and down behind cubicle barriers, while Harry clapped his hands and chortled with glee, as if the entire performance was another version of patty-cake performed for his benefit.  
"Got it," Sherlock announced, taking Harry from John and winding him back into the cashmere wrap. "Let's go."


End file.
